Good evening!
Been pondering a lot about people n stuff lately ( well, all the time really.. )
N I'll be postin a big long thing at some point, summing up how I see stuff.. an attempt to convey one persons views n feelings to others as completely as possible, I suppose would be pretty close to it. But it'll probly take a whole day or at least many hours so I'll have to see when I have that chance.. Maybe when E&M are off in Thailand.. We'll see. In the meantime (why not nicetime..?) I'll be ponderin about more things and will try n figure out all the different views n stuff for The Big Post.
I won't dibble dabble any further, instead I'll turn you over to the good Mr. Krishnamurti.
The door opened and it was held back by a statue of the Buddha, kicked into place. The owner was totally unaware of what he was doing; to him it was a door-stop. You wondered if he would do the same with a statue he revered, for he was a Christian. You deny the sacred things of another but you keep your own; the beliefs of another are superstitions but your own are reasonable and real. What is sacred?
He had picked it up, he said, on the beach; it was a piece of sea-washed wood in the shape of a human head. It was made of hard wood, shaped by the waters of the sea, cleansed by many seasons. He had brought it home and put it on the mantlepiece; he looked at it form time to time and admired what he had done. One day, he put some flowers around it and then it happened every day; he felt uncomfortable if there were not fresh flowers every day and gradually that piece of shaped wood became very important in his life. He would allow no one to touch it except himself; they might desecrate it; he washed his hands before he touched it. It had become holy, sacred, and he alone was the high priest of it; he represented it; it told him of things he could never know by himself. His life was filled with it and he was, he said, unspeakably happy.
What is sacred? Not the things made by the mind or hand or by the sea. The symbol is never the real; the word grass is not the grass of the field; the word god is not god. The word never contains the whole, however cunning the description. The word sacred has no meaning by itself; it becomes sacred only in its relationship to something, illusory or real. What is real is not the words of the mind; reality, truth, cannot be touched by thought. Where the perceiver is, truth is not. The thinker and his thought must come to an end for truth to be. Then that which is, is sacred - that ancient marble with the golden sun on it, that snake and the villager. Where there's no love there is nothing sacred. Love is whole and in it there's no fragmentation.
Good stuff again there!
Hope u all have good days n nights!
Lovin
...c
Been pondering a lot about people n stuff lately ( well, all the time really.. )
N I'll be postin a big long thing at some point, summing up how I see stuff.. an attempt to convey one persons views n feelings to others as completely as possible, I suppose would be pretty close to it. But it'll probly take a whole day or at least many hours so I'll have to see when I have that chance.. Maybe when E&M are off in Thailand.. We'll see. In the meantime (why not nicetime..?) I'll be ponderin about more things and will try n figure out all the different views n stuff for The Big Post.
I won't dibble dabble any further, instead I'll turn you over to the good Mr. Krishnamurti.
The door opened and it was held back by a statue of the Buddha, kicked into place. The owner was totally unaware of what he was doing; to him it was a door-stop. You wondered if he would do the same with a statue he revered, for he was a Christian. You deny the sacred things of another but you keep your own; the beliefs of another are superstitions but your own are reasonable and real. What is sacred?
He had picked it up, he said, on the beach; it was a piece of sea-washed wood in the shape of a human head. It was made of hard wood, shaped by the waters of the sea, cleansed by many seasons. He had brought it home and put it on the mantlepiece; he looked at it form time to time and admired what he had done. One day, he put some flowers around it and then it happened every day; he felt uncomfortable if there were not fresh flowers every day and gradually that piece of shaped wood became very important in his life. He would allow no one to touch it except himself; they might desecrate it; he washed his hands before he touched it. It had become holy, sacred, and he alone was the high priest of it; he represented it; it told him of things he could never know by himself. His life was filled with it and he was, he said, unspeakably happy.
What is sacred? Not the things made by the mind or hand or by the sea. The symbol is never the real; the word grass is not the grass of the field; the word god is not god. The word never contains the whole, however cunning the description. The word sacred has no meaning by itself; it becomes sacred only in its relationship to something, illusory or real. What is real is not the words of the mind; reality, truth, cannot be touched by thought. Where the perceiver is, truth is not. The thinker and his thought must come to an end for truth to be. Then that which is, is sacred - that ancient marble with the golden sun on it, that snake and the villager. Where there's no love there is nothing sacred. Love is whole and in it there's no fragmentation.
Good stuff again there!
Hope u all have good days n nights!
Lovin
...c
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